


What Kind of Man Loves Like This?

by hotchoco195



Series: Bedroom Hymns [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (minimal), Angst, Brothers, Developing Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Holmes snark, Love, M/M, Passion, Pushy Sherlock, holmescest, poor lube substitutes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-29 15:24:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7689835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotchoco195/pseuds/hotchoco195
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft made a regrettable choice to help Sherlock, and he's prepared to move on and live with it. Sherlock, as usual, doesn't care what Mycroft wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Kind of Man Loves Like This?

**Author's Note:**

> Immediately follows 'My Graceless Heart'

By the time Mycroft got home, whatever brief euphoria left from the sex had faded and soul-shattering horror took over. He poured himself a large drink and sat on the couch, hand shaking as he sipped. What had he _done_? What had he felt? He’d always known the things he was required to do for his work could be considered monstrous, but he’d never thought of himself as a bad person until that moment. He’d never done quite so much damage in so short a time.

_(The promise of love, the pain of loss, ~~the joy of redemption~~ )_

And what was he going to do about it? He couldn’t avoid his brother forever, especially when Sherlock was still recovering. No, the best course of action was to wait a couple of days and then carry on as if it hadn’t happened. For all he knew, Sherlock wouldn’t even remember – he’d been going through a difficult time, and once the haze of getting sober wore off he might just imagine it was a dream.

 

Still, it was days before Mycroft could think of going to Baker Street without blushing, and a week before he actually forced himself to check in. The longer he waited, the more time Sherlock had to come to his own conclusions, which helped no one. Mycroft let himself in and headed upstairs, passing Mrs Hudson on the landing.

“Oh, hello dear. Haven’t seen you for a bit.”

“I’ve been rather held up at work. How is Sherlock?”

“The usual. Carryin’ on and wrecking my drapes,” she paused, touching his arm, “He seems better since your stay.”

Mycroft gave a tight smile and gently rolled away from her hand. “I’m certain that has little to do with me.”

He moved around her and continued into the flat. Sherlock sat in his armchair with his hands clasped before his face, wearing a suit and already a lot less gaunt. He didn’t look up but John did, the doctor giving Mycroft a nod from his seat on the couch. He had the paper open over his lap but he folded it and set it on the coffee table.

“Good morning, John. I must admit I am surprised to see you’ve forgiven Sherlock for his little…episode.”

He made a face. “I was about five minutes from storming over here to yank the needle out of his veins when he called to say he was sober. We uh, we patched things up.”

“He hit me.” Sherlock’s lip curled.

“Well you bloody deserved it, didn’t ya?”

The detective gave a derisive snort and turned, finally meeting Mycroft’s gaze. The older Holmes’ heart leapt into his throat but he kept his face smooth, looking for anything off in his brother’s expression.

“What happened to Moriarty?”

Mycroft could have wept with relief – Sherlock’s thoughts were still on the case, and not more unsavoury matters. He faced the other man. “He has been apprehended, thanks to one of the tips from your homeless network, and is currently enjoying Her Majesty’s hospitality.”

John’s brows shot up. “Why wasn’t it in the news?”

“Do you think we would share that information with his people? It rather negates having him as a resource if his information is of no value.”

“I want to speak to him.” Sherlock clenched his jaw.

“Absolutely not.”

“He’ll talk to me.”

Mycroft’s expression softened. “Sherlock, I understand you are upset about the time you feel was wasted dismantling Moriarty’s operation, but no good will come of confronting him.”

Amazingly he didn’t push, instead crossing his arms as he glared at the fireplace. Mycroft almost blinked in shock before recovering. He looked around, spotted his umbrella on one of the coat hooks and retrieved it.

“I am glad to see you feeling better, Sherlock. I shall leave you in Dr Watson’s capable hands.”

“Don’t worry,” John smirked, “I won’t be leaving him unsupervised for a while.”

“You have a wife and child who will eventually require your presence.” Sherlock huffed.

“Mary told me if I left you alone, I’d be sleeping on the couch.”

Mycroft arched a brow. “A dire pronouncement indeed.”

He nodded to John and glanced back at his brother, who was still facing the other side of the room. Mycroft left, hand clutched tightly around his umbrella. Things seemed to be normal, a gift he hadn’t dared hope for. He suspected that without the drug in his system, Sherlock had realised how much Mycroft repulsed him, and wished to forget their mistake just as fervently as the older Holmes. He wasn’t sure if he felt offended or not, but he was definitely grateful.

Mycroft’s driver opened the back door and he slid into the car, refusing to even glance at 221B as they pulled away.

*****

Mycroft hung his coat on the rack one-handed as he turned the deadlocks with the other, starting at the bottom and working his way up. He placed his umbrella in the stand and carried his briefcase into the living room, coming to an abrupt halt. The lamps were on, lending the room a soft, warm glow he hadn’t seen from outside. Sherlock sat on the couch in a pale blue shirt and slacks, his sleeves rolled up, jacket draped over the arm of the seat. He had a glass of scotch in hand; a second sat on the side table next to him. As Mycroft watched he took a sip, licking his lips.

“Really Sherlock, it’s as if you have no manners.”

“Aren’t you at all pleased to see me, Mikey?” his eyes glinted mischievously, “I bet you are.”

He tucked his bag into a bureau against the wall, giving an affected sigh. “It has been a long day, Sherlock, and I have no time for your games.”

“Then we won’t dawdle, though you’re missing out – the games are the best part.”

He stood, crossing the room. Sherlock lifted his hands to the older man’s face and leaned in. Mycroft placed a hand on his chest and pushed, holding him at arm’s length.

“What do you think you are doing?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions, Mikey. We’re both better than that.”

“From your behaviour this morning I had hoped you were not going to mention that incident in future. I was rather relieved, actually.”

“I can’t very well start mooning over you in front of John, can I? There’s no privacy at Baker St.”

“That is irrelevant, Sherlock. That level of intimacy between us is never going to happen again. You need to accept it so we can avoid any more of these awkward conversations.”

“Don’t lie, Mycroft. You’ve thought about it. You’ve thought about _me._ How many hours have you spent remembering – imagining? Considering the possibilities of having me willing and eager, begging for you?”

Mycroft’s spine quivered at the smoky timbre of his voice, but by some miracle he managed to keep the tremble out of his reply. “I helped you through your withdrawals, against my better judgement, because I wanted you to get better. That’s all. I took nothing from it, Sherlock.”

“Your pulse sped up the moment you saw me. Your pupils are dilated, your breath faster – barely, but noticeable enough. Your body is beyond your control, brother, and I think secretly you enjoy it. You enjoy feeling something wild, and dangerous, and thrilling. You’ve spent too long behind a desk.”

He leaned in until his lips touched the other man’s ear.

“And I recall the way you looked at me when I was spread out beneath you, pinned on your cock. You wanted it.”

 

He tried to regulate his breathing but it was pointless, wasn’t it? Sherlock already knew he was rattled. Mycroft stepped back, inadvertently pressing himself against the bureau.

“Regardless of what I want, there are rules. Lines that must not be crossed. And most importantly, I don’t think of you that way.”

“You didn’t, not before, but now I think you struggle not to.”

“You said it wouldn’t change us,” Mycroft protested, knowing how desperate he sounded, “You said it was only sex. If that’s what you’re after you could get it anywhere, Sherlock.”

“You can hardly blame me for making those statements when I didn’t know what I’d be giving up.”

“There’s nothing to give up, Sherlock! This is only a temporary fixation. Go and find yourself a case, and by tomorrow you won’t even remember why you were bothering me about this.”

“But I haven’t thanked you for taking care of me, Mikey. What were you saying about my manners?”

He slid to his knees in front of the older Holmes, eyes crystal blue as he leered up through dark lashes. He reached for his brother’s fly and Mycroft grabbed his hand. Sherlock pursed his lips and shook him off, unfastening the button.

“Sherlock-”

“Don’t you ever get sick of hearing yourself speak?”

He pulled down the zipper and reached in. Mycroft gasped as cool fingers brushed him through his underwear. He fisted a hand in the younger man’s hair, forcing Sherlock to meet his eye.

“Stop this.”

_(Don't make me order you.  
I'd like to see you ~~try~~.)_

It didn’t seem to put him off; Sherlock took a shuddery breath and licked his lips again, eyes twinkling as he carefully peeled Mycroft’s underwear down until he could lift out his soft member. Sherlock leaned in, still staring up at him, and nuzzled the side of his face against Mycroft’s thigh. His breath fluttered over the other Holmes’ flesh, hot and teasing, and he bit his cheek to hold back a moan.

Mycroft needed to walk away, right now. This road led nowhere good; maybe seeing Sherlock on his knees gave him a thrill he hadn’t felt in years, but it wasn’t worth the drama. He should throw his brother out and find someone else, anyone really, for a cheap and nasty shag. Get it out of his system and continue with his reputation as the sensible brother intact.

Why was it so hard to say no? He’d never had much luck arguing with Sherlock, that was true, and the other man certainly had a way of overwhelming him. But Mycroft knew, _knew_ , in every fibre of his being that this was an unforgivable mistake and yet…

He looked at that wet, pouting mouth so close to his cock and he ached to know what it felt like. He looked at Sherlock’s sharp cheekbones and wanted to see them hollow as he sucked. He couldn’t take what was offered (what his brother practically insisted) and yet it was offered, freely and clearly, no question of coercion this time. Mycroft should know better, should be the responsible one, should be wiser and stronger and end this right now.

Sherlock closed his lips around his flaccid prick and Mycroft jolted forward, not holding back the groan this time. His tongue lashed over the tip and down to the root, and while it wasn’t too late to stop, never too late, Mycroft’s muscles were frozen in place. He looked at his brother pleadingly, a dozen thoughts fighting it out in his head, and Sherlock’s lips curved into a smile around him.

_(Want to see some more?)_

It was very hard to concentrate on making Sherlock stop when the detective was massaging him to hardness and his body was refusing to obey him, his shaft stiffening no matter how hard his heart was beating. It was _almost_ tempting to just let it happen; after all, they’d already done worse. Mycroft could take a moment’s pleasure, gladly given, and then go back to pretending things were normal – and what would it cost him? He already hated himself. This couldn’t make it worse.

“Sherlock, stop.” He gasped out.

The younger man pulled back slowly, the hot vacuum of his mouth giving a last tug as Mycroft slipped free. He bit his lip, brushing a curl out of his eye.

“Is that what you want?”

He reached up and very slowly tugged Mycroft’s hand into his hair. Equally slowly he leaned in, lips parted sinfully. The moment of eye contact seemed to drag on forever, Mycroft’s brain firing on all cylinders as his erection twitched towards Sherlock’s mouth impatiently, and then he was being swallowed to the hilt with a cry as his fingers clenched shut to hold the younger man in place.

 

When he reflected on it later, Mycroft decided he’d been doomed the second he saw Sherlock on the couch.

 

Slippery muscle caressed his shaft, a clever tongue twisting over the head. He eased off his grip and Sherlock began to bob along his length, a hand clutching Mycroft’s thigh for balance. His fingers dug deep creases into the fabric, marking him, and the other man grabbed the edge of the bureau hard so he wouldn’t rip Sherlock’s hair out by accident.

The detective was no less awkward than he had been the first time but the sight of him on the floor, Mycroft’s prick plunging between his lips, was so provocative he was glad his brother wasn’t more experienced; he wasn’t sure he’d have lasted long otherwise. Sherlock was beautiful most of the time but something about watching him submit made Mycroft want to take him hard and fast and keep him locked away from the eyes of the world, a plaything for the older Holmes alone.

The thought didn’t help his already ragged self-control. Mycroft clenched his eyes shut, leaning his weight on the furniture as he gave himself over. Sherlock’s tongue zigzagged and swirled, his lips massaging the other man’s length. He slid down to the hilt, Mycroft’s head hitting the back of his throat. He gagged unattractively, pulling back with a splutter as he wiped saliva off his chin. Sherlock glared daggers at him, daring the older Holmes to laugh, but Mycroft just hissed his appreciation and ran a thumb through the slick, shiny trail at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth.

“Well?” he asked softly.

The detective’s mouth curled into a sly pout, and he closed it around Mycroft’s flesh again. He worked feverishly, head wobbling on his neck like a scene in a bad porno, gasping and gulping as he struggled to catch his breath without actually slowing down. It was messy and frantic, like everything with Sherlock – and totally amazing. He was pushing his brother’s buttons without even trying, and Mycroft had to wonder if he even realised the effect he had.

Sherlock reached up and grabbed at his clothes, forcing his trousers and underwear down just past the top of his thighs. He gripped Mycroft’s sac, hard enough to make him wince, and then the long fingers loosened, gently tugging at the taut skin. He worked them carefully, resting the weight in his palm as his tongue lashed along Mycroft’s length.

He was getting close now; he could feel his climax gathering at the base of his spine, the hot white pressure seeping into the muscle of his thighs, which were already complaining about holding his weight so long. They were long past the point of no return, and he should have been happier about the idea of getting it over with – the sooner this was done, the sooner he could pretend things would go back to normal. Except that wasn’t going to happen, was it? Things between them would never be normal again, not now Mycroft knew what Sherlock looked like on his knees, not when he’d be able to imagine it every time he closed his eyes, every time he wrapped his hand around his shaft on dark, lonely nights.

Sherlock swept his tongue over his slit and gave a pretty moan, and Mycroft wrestled with his nerves for a second before his climax hit him in the back of the eyelids like a rushing train. He pressed his fist to his mouth, smothering a groan as he emptied himself into Sherlock’s mouth. His other hand had become tangled in the brunette’s hair at some point, though Mycroft couldn’t remember when, and he must have been hurting his brother but the younger Holmes didn’t move, simply suckling gently on Mycroft’s already sagging prick.

Gradually he loosened his grip, releasing Sherlock as his hand fell to his side, eyes opening slowly. There might have been a second of doubt, something shameful rising in his stomach as the haze of the orgasm faded, but then Sherlock pulled away, wiping a hand across his jaw. Something in Mycroft roared to the surface. He seized him by the front of his shirt and yanked him to his feet, bringing their lips together with a crash. His brother clung to him, so seemingly breakable in Mycroft’s grip, and he growled into the kiss.

“Upstairs. Now.”

 

Sherlock entered the bedroom first, watching silently as Mycroft turned on the lamps. Then, without being beckoned, he reached for the older Holmes’ jacket and slid it down his arms. Sherlock hung it carefully over a chair and started on his waistcoat buttons, and then his shirt. He hung those up too, guiding Mycroft to sit as he knelt to undo the man’s shoes. Then he stood, stripping off his own clothes as if he could barely be bothered with them, dropping them to the carpet. He was hard, the tip of his prick shiny and slick, and Mycroft traced a finger along the ridge of his shaft until he could brush against the detective’s entrance.

He arched a brow at the resistance there, probing more thoroughly as he felt out the hard plastic of the toy.

“How positively shocking of you, brother. You were certainly sure of yourself when you came here.”

“I’m not a patient man, Mycroft. I didn’t want to wait while you fool about being careful.”

He thought about the plug shifting as the younger man rocked back on his heels at Mycroft’s feet. He thought about Sherlock sitting on his couch, stretched open and waiting for _him_. It was perverse and deliberate, and he loved it.

“What if I want you to wait?”

Sherlock ran a hand down his chest, twisting his fingers through the short curly hair, mouthing at Mycroft’s jaw. “Then I’d say you’ve failed to read the situation. You’re not in charge here, Mikey.”

“Oh no, Sherly. You came to me. You threw yourself at my feet. You pushed, and now I’m pushing back.”

There was a quiet sound as Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat and Mycroft’s mouth twitched into a smirk. He tugged the other man into his lap, one hand wrapping possessively around the back of his neck as he drew him in for a kiss, the other circling the swollen tip that nudged his stomach. Sherlock hissed through his teeth, nipping at his brother’s bottom lip, and shifted his legs.

“Mikey…”

“You will wait.”

“Sadist.”

“Yes.”

He gently closed his fist around Sherlock’s length, holding his face where he could watch every tiny flicker and change in expression. Mycroft stroked, long unhurried tugs that made the other man’s brow furrow in frustration as his eyes fluttered shut. Sherlock worked his hips, trying to get more friction, but Mycroft simply slowed his movements even further, tutting under his breath.

“You. Will. Wait.”

 

He shuttled up and down, smile growing as Sherlock’s gaze got more and more desperate. His brother was a hopeless addict – no impulse control, no attention span. He’d been chasing instant gratification all his life.

“Please, Mikey.”

“Please what, Sherlock?”

He groaned, bucking up. “Have a heart.”

_(All hearts are broken.)_

Mycroft released him. “Go to the bedside table.”

Sherlock scrambled to reach the drawer without climbing off him, fumbling it open. He found the lube without being told where it was hidden under Mycroft’s neatly pressed pocket squares. There were no condoms, since he never invited people home, but the statesman kept very close tabs on his brother’s health when he’d been using, and didn’t foresee any problems.

The younger man stood for the time it took to shove Mycroft’s trousers down his legs and then straddled him again, dumping a healthy amount of lube onto his palm before running it along his shaft. He chuckled as the semi-swollen flesh jumped at the touch.

“I wasn’t sure about your refractory period.”

“I’m middle-aged, Sherly, not dead.”

“And here I was going to take it as a compliment.”

Mycroft closed his hands around the top of Sherlock’s arms, tugging him flush against his chest. “Do you want my compliments, Sherly? I would have thought you’ve had ample proof exactly how you affect me.”

He shivered, tracing his nose along Mycroft’s cheekbone. “Show me. Please, Mikey.”

The older man reached between them and gripped the protruding end of the plug. He gave it a half-turn, Sherlock choking off a gasp, and started to slide it out. The detective’s nails bit into his shoulders as he wobbled, and then it was gone and Mycroft was thrusting himself into Sherlock in its place.

As soon as he was sheathed in his brother again, he had to bury his face in the younger Holmes’ neck or risk going mad. It was exactly like he remembered and more, better without the glaring shame of his memories. Mycroft gnawed at Sherlock’s collarbone as he got a hold of himself, the other man shaking as he fought to keep still and mostly failed.

When he thought he could manage it, Mycroft straightened, a devilish smile fixed on his features. He quirked a brow.

“I am at your mercy, Sherlock. Do your worst.”

 

His words were like a starter’s pistol, or the fall of the guillotine. Sherlock hooked his hands behind Mycroft’s neck and started riding him madly, knees braced against the mattress. The assault was more than Mycroft had bargained for, and he seized his brother by the hips in an effort to slow him down or pull him closer or maybe both. Sherlock pressed their foreheads together, panting loudly as his muscles flexed. He felt too thin still, too light, like Mycroft could have tossed him across the room on a whim. Instead he only bounced Sherlock harder down his shaft, drinking in every moan and choked cry.

The detective rose and fell urgently, mouth squished against his temple in a mock kiss. He impaled himself again and again with the regularity of a piston in some perpetual machine, and Mycroft wondered briefly if everything had always been leading to this. It felt like it might be true, in the perfect lines of Sherlock’s body and the taut fit of him, and the way Mycroft’s hands seemed to lock into the hollows of his spine like they were made for it.

His fingers dugs into Sherlock’s hips, his lower lip caught firmly between his teeth as he growled, eyes glued to the younger man’s face. He writhed and purred against Mycroft like a waifish courtesan, every sound a new stab of lust, every touch too hot and too soft and never enough. He was a tease, his body open and his mind just out of reach. Mycroft curled one hand in the hair at the base of Sherlock’s skull and forced him to meet his gaze.

Endlessly blue stared back at him, pale and guileless and vulnerable, his soft lips agape as he panted. His brow furrowed in a desperate plea as he threw himself down Mycroft’s length, a breathless kind of despair tucked into the corners of his frown.

“Oh, Sherly.”

“Please, Mikey,” his cheeks hollowed, “Please.”

He closed a hand around Sherlock’s erection, the detective gasping at the warmth. Mycroft fondled him lazily for a moment, just enjoying the feel of his velvet-soft skin, and the younger man gave a whine.

“Don’t worry. I shall take care of you.”

He dropped the casual air for a rapid series of efficient tugs, turning his fist as he stroked. Sherlock puffed, tilting his hips forward to drive himself further into Mycroft’s hand. He couldn’t keep his rhythm, movements limited by the older Holmes’ grasp, so he ground down instead, rolling his hips side to side to rub Mycroft’s swollen head against his prostate. He keened, tugging hard at Mycroft’s neck to keep his balance as he came with a shout, spurting over the statesman’s stomach and hand.

“Sherlock!” he gasped, head dropping back as the other man clenched down, his face frozen in a silent scream.

Mycroft’s climax was less intense so soon after the first; it was sucked out of him like a drawn-out sigh, a shudder through his limbs and a childish cry.

_(The Iceman and the-)_

 

The dark wrapped around them, quiet and still as they caught their breath. Neither of them moved, skin pressed together and too hot, sweat and sex filling the air – or maybe it already had, and they simply hadn’t noticed.

Mycroft was afraid if they stopped holding each other they’d have to start talking again, and as soon as that happened he’d have to come to his senses. He didn’t want that; however self-destructive it was, he wasn’t ready to give up the electric touch of Sherlock against him. He wasn’t in the mood to lie to his brother or pretend he didn’t enjoy it, and he’d have to do both if he had any chance of convincing Sherlock it couldn’t continue.

But he wasn’t young, or anything approaching fit, and his back started to complain about supporting Sherlock’s weight. Mycroft tapped his leg, urging the other man to fall onto the bed. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, and got up to fetch a washcloth and clean himself up. He brought another for the detective, who hardly stirred as he gave a lazy smile. Mycroft wrapped himself in his dressing gown and stood by the window, though he didn’t dare open the curtains an inch. He just didn’t want his brother to be able to see his face.

“Well,” Sherlock drawled, “It’s been a lovely visit, Mikey. Shall I call again next week?”

“You can’t think that’s wise.”

“When have I ever done the sensible thing?”

He shook his head. “This is madness, Sherlock. We have been lucky to get away with it so far – if, indeed, we have. Any further involvement would only invite disaster.”

“Then why didn’t you throw me out the second you got home, hmm?” he raised himself on one elbow, “When you still had a chance to claim I’d forced myself on you under the influence. We’re in it now, Mikey – you made that decision before I even got on my knees.”

“Oh, so we should say ‘sod it’ and throw ourselves under the train? Keep going until we’re both ruined? Sherlock, can you think about anyone besides yourself for a moment and imagine the consequences if people find out about this? What would John say? What about Mummy? If we carry on, the chance of being discovered gets higher and higher, and it is a price neither of us can afford to pay.”

“So you _do_ want to carry on, you’re just afraid.”

The older Holmes scowled at him. “What I want hardly matters.”

“I think it’s worth some consideration, don’t you?”

Mycroft ground his teeth. “This cannot happen, Sherlock. End of discussion.”

The detective was off the bed in a flash, backing Mycroft against the wall, though he didn’t touch. He met his gaze evenly, curls dishevelled, lips pink and wanton from his kisses.

“If you can tell me honestly that this isn’t the most exhilarating thing that’s happened to you in decades, I’ll go and we won’t mention it again.”

 

“That’s it?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I’m not a demon trying to tempt you, Mikey. If you don’t think it’s worth the risk, I won’t fight you.”

He stroked his thumb along the other man’s jaw and down his neck, pausing over his jugular.

“But,” the younger Holmes whispered, “You have to be honest.”

Mycroft hesitated. He could do this. He lied to Sherlock all the time – he’d kept Jim’s survival a secret for over a year. All he had to do was say it wasn’t worth it, which was true anyway. All he had to do was tell Sherlock he wanted to take the easy path, and forget they’d ever strayed.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Will you be satisfied, if I tell you I want to end it?”

A smile ghosted across Sherlock’s face. “I am used to denying myself the things I crave.”

Mycroft took a breath.

 _(Or what?_  
Or I'll just walk away.   
~~I'll let you~~ )

“There will have to be rules, Sherly.”

“Never at Baker St?” he suggested, expression slowly turning smug as he wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s neck.

“Never outside this house at all, and never when there’s company. And it shall not be mentioned or inferred by phone, or discussed in any room we haven’t cleared for surveillance.”

“I can restrain myself.”

“Can you?” his brother stared him down.

“When it suits me.”

“That’s what I’m concerned about.”

Sherlock clucked his tongue, pouting. “I can be good, Mikey.”

He sighed, closing his hands over the younger man’s waist. “I don’t expect miracles, brother. Just be cautious.”

“Does being cautious require leaving at a reasonable hour?”

“Would you rather stay?”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

Mycroft eyed his rumpled bed, and thought it might be a nice change to have someone in it without worrying they might cut his throat or ransack his study.

“I’d like that.”

*****

Mycroft walked into his kitchen and found Sherlock opening a bottle of white, two plates on the table. The statesman arched a brow.

“Your timing is impeccable, brother.”

Sherlock scoffed. “I _am_ a genius, Mycroft.”

“Homeless network?”

“I’ve had them tracking you for years.”

“You cooked?” he set his bag by the door.

“I may not be much of a chef, but I remember Mummy’s lessons.”

“I appreciate the gesture.”

Sherlock offered him a glass and Mycroft took it, gently clinking the rim against Sherlock’s before sitting to examine the food. It was simple, fried fish with baked potatoes and tomato salsa, but it smelled divine. He took a bite and gave a surprised hum of approval.

“Edible?” Sherlock smirked over his wine.

“I’d even say palatable.”

“I’m overwhelmed by your praise.”

“You should be. I don’t hand it out to everyone.” He said smugly.

Sherlock glared at him and stabbed a potato with his fork.

“I must say, when you said you were coming over I expected to be molested the moment I got in the door, not wined and dined.”

“Are you terribly disappointed?” the detective snorted.

“Pleasantly shocked. I find myself in the mood for good company. I’m simply wondering if this is the norm for how you wish to conduct this…relationship.”

“Oh, I think there’s room for threshold molestation,” Sherlock’s lip curled wickedly, “But it’s as you say. I enjoy your company when you’re not bossing me about and nosing into my business.”

“If you’re expecting me to stop doing either, I’m afraid you’re mistaken. We cannot change our behaviour without arousing suspicion.”

“I have some experience in undercover work, Mikey.”

He rolled his eyes as Mycroft smirked at the double entendre.

“Shut up and eat your dinner.”

 

They were quiet while they chewed, Sherlock topping up their glasses. He rested his chin on his hands, watching Mycroft innocently.

“How are things at the office?”

“Busy, as usual.”

“And Moriarty’s interrogation?”

The older Holmes set down his cutlery, jaw tight. “I am not sharing confidential government matters with you, Sherlock. If that’s the reason you’re here, you might as well leave.”

He held up a hand. “I apologise.”

“Pardon?” Mycroft blinked.

“I’m not using you for information, I swear. I won’t pry again.”

“Well,” he bit his tongue, “That _is_ unlike you. I am beginning to wonder if you are an imposter.”

“I’m not a moron, Mikey. I understand that this is an unconventional liaison,” he gestured between them, “And of the two of us you have more to lose were it discovered. You might believe I was only interested in order to gain something when your defences are lowered, or to manipulate you later.”

“That’s not the case?”

“I don’t need to sleep with you to get at your secrets.”

That probably should have been more unsettling than it was. “Then what are you interested in?”

“The face you make when you’re buried in me. Watching your careful composure unravel until you’re as ruled by instinct as the boring ordinary people.”

“Wouldn’t that make _me_ boring?”

“Oh no,” Sherlock leered, “You’re never boring, Mycroft.”

Suddenly he wasn’t too concerned about dinner. The statesman drained the last of his wine and held the glass out, eyes following the angle of Sherlock’s wrist as he refilled it. The brunette stood, carrying the empty plates to the sink. Mycroft followed him quietly, stopping so that when Sherlock turned he almost collided with the older man. He didn’t move, staring with anticipation as Mycroft slowly raised a thumb to his lips, fingers stroking his jaw.

“You obviously put some thought into tonight. Tell me, Sherlock, did you prepare yourself for me again?”

“No.”

He clucked his tongue. “Shame.”

 

He stepped back, taking off his jacket. He hung it over the back of a chair, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves.

“Remove your clothes.” He said quietly, in a tone that expected to be obeyed.

Sherlock did as he was told, breathing already quicker as he tracked Mycroft’s movements. The older Holmes went to the pantry and took out a bottle of olive oil, unscrewing the lid and setting it very deliberately on the counter. The detective’s breath caught in his throat, hands hesitating on his shirt buttons. Mycroft just lifted a brow expectantly.

Sherlock hurried to get the rest of them undone, dropping his shirt to the floor beside his trousers and shoes, leaning against the counter. Mycroft tilted his head speculatively, taking in his brother’s naked beauty. He looked like prey waiting for the predator to pounce, and yet he would never have said Sherlock was helpless. He _wanted_ to get eaten.

Mycroft tipped the oil over his fingers, letting the excess drip into the sink. He rubbed them together to make sure they were slick, then placed his other hand on Sherlock’s shoulder as he reached between his legs and circled his entrance. The younger man whimpered, shifting his weight as Mycroft grazed the sensitive spot behind his balls and traced the vein up around to the base of his shaft. He gave Sherlock’s growing erection a soft tug before trailing back and wiggling the tip of one digit through the taut muscle, sliding his finger all the way in.

Sherlock hissed and leaned forward to kiss him, lips gentle as Mycroft probed him with short, deliberate strokes. He added a second finger, worming it in beside the first as he felt Sherlock’s wall start to relax around him.

“I think I prefer this.” His lip curled smugly.

“Of course you do,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “You’re a control freak with an ego the size of Big Ben. But it takes so _long_ , Mikey.”

“Don’t pout, brother mine. All in good time.”

Sherlock’s pout only deepened. “You just like making me wait.”

“Yes.” He said cheerily.

Sherlock smiled, a mischievous look creeping over his face. “Maybe I can give you some incentive to speed things up.”

He reached between them, sliding Mycroft’s suspenders down his shoulders, unbuttoning his pants. His hand snaked in and closed around the statesman’s erection, pulling it free. Those long fingers closed around him, shuffling awkwardly along his length in the limited space, and Mycroft groaned.

“You were always a quick study.”

“I hardly have to try with you, Mikey. You make it so easy.” Sherlock taunted.

He quirked his brows. “Apologies if I’m boring you.”

The brunette clenched his jaw. “Never.”

 

Mycroft worked another digit in, eyes on Sherlock’s as the younger Holmes stroked him. The detective spread his legs wider, inviting him in, a hand fisted in Mycroft’s shirt as he ground down on his fingers desperately.

“Are you ready for me, Sherlock?” he murmured, “Tell me.”

“Please, Mikey.”

“I didn’t say beg – I said _tell me_.”

“I need you,” his eyes flashed, pale as ice, “I need you, Mikey, now.”

Mycroft grabbed the olive oil and pressed it into Sherlock’s free hand. The other man tipped it into his palm, oil spilling over both of them. Mycroft clucked his tongue.

“You are a menace to my suits, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Good.” He grinned, slamming their mouths together.

He wrapped his slippery hand around Mycroft again, coating him in the oil as the older genius scissored his fingers, making sure Sherlock was as open and pliant as he could make him. Then he slid them free, gripping the waif by the hips as he guided his slick, swollen head against Sherlock’s entrance. The brunette grabbed him by the shoulders, leaving oily handprints on Mycroft’s shirt as the other man pushed inside him.

There was a moment where Mycroft let himself dwell on the sensations of being buried in Sherlock, in the scent of his hair and the softness of the skin under his fingers, and then his earlier urgency returned. He hoisted Sherlock so he was perched against the edge of the counter, hands clasped around his thighs, and snapped his hips in a punishing, furious rhythm.

Long legs wrapped around his back, drawing him in even closer. Mycroft growled against the rush of blood in his veins, the fire that danced through his nerves – he felt young again, strong and virile and reckless as Sherlock kissed him over and over, the two of them perfectly balanced.

His eyes skimmed the other man, raking over his tousled curls, his flushed cheeks, the ivory of his shoulders and chest. Sherlock was gorgeous and untouchable and cold, like a fine statue – except he wasn’t untouchable anymore, he was Mycroft’s. The statesman was the only person who got to watch him come apart like that, got to hear the faint moans and gasps when he plunged into Sherlock’s lithe body, got to see the glassy, distracted expression staring up at him like he held all the answers. Mycroft had been the hand guiding England from the shadows for decades now, but he had never known power like this.

He felt a ridiculous notion to tell someone, a need to proclaim it to the world even if his whole life collapsed under the weight of it. He hated to think that people didn’t know, couldn’t see it; that there were strangers and friends and clients lusting after the detective without realising that Sherlock was his now. Perhaps he always had been. Perhaps that was the real reason neither of them had ever found someone else – they’d been waiting for Mycroft to reach this final conclusion.

 

Sherlock’s mouth popped open in a pretty gape, his brow furrowed. “Mikey.”

_(What might we deduce about his heart?)_

Something about the breathless way his name dropped from his brother’s lips froze the older Holmes mid-thrust. His hands dug into Sherlock’s hips as he stared, the brunette squirming impatiently when Mycroft still didn’t move.

“Mikey?”

He curled a hand in Sherlock’s hair and kissed him, pressing them together as close as he could. Had Mycroft always known that it would be like this? Was this the reason they’d maintained such a distance over the years, because he’d sensed the danger? What a mistake that had been.

He broke the kiss, resting his cheek against Sherlock’s, mouth next to his ear. “Turn around.”

The tremor in his voice must have been noticeable, because when he slipped out of the younger man and stepped back, Sherlock was regarding him curiously. He raised a finger to Mycroft’s cheek, tracing the line for a second, lips poised as if to ask a question.

The statesman arched a brow. “You always did have trouble following instructions.”

The detective’s lips twitched. “Instructions are for stupid people.”

But he turned, hips brushing against Mycroft’s slick erection. He braced himself against the counter and the older man smiled, pressing a hand on Sherlock’s back until he was bent over completely, arse thrust towards the other Holmes. Mycroft quickly reached down and slid himself back inside his brother’s tight passage, Sherlock hissing as their limbs fit together. Mycroft flicked his hips and they both groaned, his eyes flickering shut. The younger man gave a strangled whimper, pushing back on his shaft, and his patience evaporated.

Mycroft fell into their former rhythm, pounding his flesh against Sherlock’s, breath grunting and guttural in the obscene silence of the kitchen. The detective gripped the far side of the bench to hold himself up, cheek flat against the surface. Mycroft kept one hand on the small of his back, enjoying the illusion of power, of control – he was fairly sure they were far beyond the realms of winning and losing now, but he liked the image of his smaller brother pinned beneath him, mewling and arching his back. Mycroft was an expert at pulling other people’s strings, and Sherlock was no exception, but this…this was something new, something that twisted his heart in his chest in ways he’d recognised in others, but never felt.

He bent over, chest covering Sherlock’s bony back, and clasped his free hand over one of the detective’s. Their fingers knit together as his breath washed over Sherlock’s neck, lips seeking out his jugular lightly as he thrust. The heat of their joined skin seemed it would burn him, like they might just melt together beyond repair.

“Mikey!” he gasped.

The older man buried his face in Sherlock’s curls, voice rasping as his tired muscles rolled forward relentlessly, filling him, stretching him. “Say it again.”

“Mikey.” He shuddered, the word hovering above their heads.

_(Am I happy, too? I haven't checked)_


End file.
